The Warrior
by AlyssaSpencer
Summary: Since his time with the S.E.A.L teams, he has worked as an "agent for hire" for the C.I.A. He was told to never look back – "forget your name and your family. You are a ghost." Thomas Pope did what he was paid to do in the worst of places. Now, after a serious betrayal, his identity was released to his enemies. Beaten, broken and bruised, a face from the past offers him salvation.


**WARRI, SYRIA**

Syria, not the best place to be after a civil war. The people were scared, keeping their eyes down, mouths shut, never noticing a thing. They were told they would be killed if they aided the enemy, although it was often too hard to tell who was fighting who at times. Outsiders were viewed as spies and watched at all times. I don't blame them; anyone who would want to come to a living, sun-scorched hell must be under orders.

I walked down a small street of sand, passing colorful tents selling hand-made goods and two story office buildings that looked to be decaying from constant sand-storms. A phone call I received earlier instructed me to wait on the corner of a four-way intersection. I stood there in brown leather loafers, tan trousers, and a light blue dress shirt under a dark blue vest. Dark tinted aviator glasses kept the hellish sun out of my eyes and hid were I looked. Not the most covert attire in a village of traditional African and Muslim dress, but it served its purpose as signaling me as an outsider. I buttoned my collar high to cover the recent scaring to my throat; the pain increased by the touch of fabric and the blowing sand. No matter how much pain this wound would cause, my rage was stronger. I shook it off.

Any meeting, any appointment, you have to show up early to make sure you're not followed, make sure the area is secure and to check out the other guy's advance team. See how well he's prepared. I waited and I watched, checking the time on my wristwatch. Noon – they should be there shortly.

Covert intelligence involves a lot of waiting around. Being a spy is like sitting around in a waiting room; read an old magazine, sip some crappy coffee, even chat up the pretty girl next to you. And every once in a while, someone tries to kill you. Sometimes, they get lucky.

A jeep painted in sand camouflage pulled up and park a few feet past me. The back hatch was open and two men in military uniforms sat in the back, feet handing out, with high-powered guns in their hands. Trailing right behind them was a shiny black sedan driven by a polished black male. The door opened and another black man stepped out, gun slung over his shoulder, sunglasses covering his eyes.

"Get in!" He ordered, nodding to the car. A few pedestrians behind me kept their heads down and left. I dipped my head and showed a slight smile before getting in before him. The car peeled away behind the military jeep once the door was shut.

Inside the car, I was wedged between two African male, both holding guns pointed towards me. Sighing, I said,

"You couldn't get an SUV?" I turned my head to the guy on my left. "They're surprisingly affordable."

The man replied with a left hook to my jaw.

"Not in the mood?" I asked, rubbing my jaw.

The man on my right this time replied with a right hook to my jaw. As I leaned over to keep the blood off my shirt, he asked his partner on my left, "CIA?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man on the right curiously look me over. "What do you say, spy?"

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, flung the blood to the floor of the car, and sat back up. I kept quiet for the rest of the ride. What could I say to them that wouldn't get me killed, "No"? Majority of spies work for their government; about half of those spies are doubles for the CIA. Those agents have restricts – things they can and cannot do. Independent contractors, like myself, have more…flexibility. Then again, as far as third-world gunmen are concerned, an American in nice clothes works for the CIA.

But who said I was American?

The car coasted to a stop under the concrete awning of the Warri Grand Hotel. I got out with the two men, rifles in hand, and walked right into the hotel, past the check-in counter, and straight to the elevators. Couldn't do that in America, that's for sure. After a silent ride in the metal box and a quick walk down the hallway, they opened the door to a room and pushed me in. One man stood by the windows, watching the street below. He was white, maybe five-eleven, with dark brown hair neatly combed back, wearing jeans and w brown leather shoulder gun holster over a crisp white dress shirt. The second man sat on the couch, a beautiful African female stroking his arm. The man was also white, mid-thirties, black hair, wearing a black tracksuit, white sneakers, and a gold chain. This was Boris the wannabe warlord.

He stood and greeted me with a chuckle and a smile. "Welcome, Mr. CIA."

"No, no, no." I smiled, shaking his hand. "I don't work for anybody directly. That's why I can give you a whole lot of money to stop blowing up oil refineries."

Boris laughed and slapped my arm. I chuckled falsely, nodding to the men around the room as I sat opposite of Boris. He smiled, rubbing the woman's arm lazily, before saying, "I no do business with man if I cannot look him in the eyes."

"I respect that." I nodded, reaching up slowly to take off my sunglasses and hung it on my vest. Boris was quiet. He and everyone else in the room was looking at the two vertical lines on the left side of my face.

Keeping eye contact with my face, the woman stood from Boris' side and slowly walked over to kneel beside my chair. He eyes were filled with curiosity as her hand deliberately reached out and traced the thin lines of the scars. Her fingers started at my hairline, softly brushing down over my left eye and down over my stubble jaw, ending at the top of my neck. She traced the second line starting beside my nostril, over my lip, stopping at my chin.

"Do they hurt?" She asked softly, her fingers still on my face.

"Not anymore." I said. I gently removed her hand from my face, breaking the spell my scars had on her attention.

Embarrassed, she lowered her head. "I apologize if I have offended you."

"No, no. You are a curious child after all!" Boris chuckled some more and gestured for her to come back to him. "Mr. CIA, I am curious as well. How did you receive scars?"

My face became serious for a moment. "Bombing."

Boris' face lost some of its humor. "A business man, straight down to job. No chit-chat. So be it." He turned his head to the woman. "Leave us."

She nodded, got up, and left. I watched her go as I reached inside my vest. The sounds of guns snapping to attention brought me back. I looked up at the gunmen, smiling slightly

"Easy now, just reaching for a map." Boris waved them off. I pulled it out of my vest and laid it on the table between us, pointing at a red circle. "You guarantee security for the Nembi oil fields. No fires, no explosions, no…unexplainable animal attacks. We agree?"

Boris squinted. "How much money?"

"Eight hundred thousand."

"Then, da, we agree." Boris pulled out of his pocket a slip of paper and slid it over the table. It was his account information.

I stood up, announcing, "I'm reaching into my pocket for my cell phone." I pulled it out and showed them. "See?" As I was dialing the phone and walking towards the window, Boris pulled out a black, clunky computer to watch his account. The men kept their guns on me.

_"Hello?"_ A man on the other side of the phone asked.

"Yes, hi. I have the wire-transfer information. The aba number is 0210010175-"

The man on the other side cut me off. _"It's off."_

My shoulders squared off. "Excuse me?"

_"Mission's been scrubbed. Get out of there."_ The phone clicked off and the line was dead.

When Boris saw me lowering my phone, he stood up. "Is there problem?"

I turned and smiled apologetically. "No problem. Damn computer mix-up." I dialed another number and turned back to the window. The line connected and before the person on the other line could answer I said, "Put your boss on the phone."

"_I'm sorry,"_ a woman said. _"I can't help you."_

"I have a wire-transfer number. 0210010-" The line disconnects again, beeping in my ear. I hit the end call button on my screen and close my eyes. Nothing more you can do besides smile and stay alive when a mission goes south. I turned around and did just that.

Minutes later, I was on my side getting the crap beaten out of me by Boris' henchmen. Sometimes, the truth hurts and rarely does it set you free. In a tight jam like this one, the best thing you could do is lie.

"You think you can steal from me!" Boris yelled, yanking my head up by the hair. "You CIA bastard!"

"I'm CIA!" I shouted. "I-I'm CIA! I've got the money!"

"Enough! Enough!" Boris shouted, shoving one of his guys. "Pick him up."

"I-I've got the money." I groaned as two of the guys held me up by my arms. "I've got the money, but it's not here." I coughed and spit blood on the floor. "I can take you to it, though."

"What were you going to do with _my _money?" Boris growled in my face, jamming his gun in my side.

"Forget about that. In 20 minutes, you'll have your money," I spit out more blood, "I promise."

Boris narrows his eyes before nodding. "Take him."

The two African guys I rode in with dragged me arm-in-arm to the elevator. Guy on Right violently pressed the Lobby button and we rode down in silence. It was when the doors opened and we were a few feet in the lobby when I started to groan. "I need the bathroom. I'm gonna be sick. I'm gonna – wait, wait!" They ignored me and kept on walking. "I'm gonna be sick! I need the bathroom!" They let go of me. I doubled over, clutching my stomach. "I'm gonna be sick in the car, you understand?" I retched, the blood landing on the boots of Guy on Right. "-in the car!" They grabbed my arms forcefully and dragged me towards the restrooms. "Blood – everywhere!"

Guy on Right went first, shoving open the bathroom door and pushing out anyone who was in there. I was then ushered in by Guy on Left, his gun pointed at my back. That's when I made my move. I rear elbowed him in the nose. He was stunned so I spun around, my hand on the back of his head, pushed, spun, and shoved him into the tiled wall. In a fight, you have to be careful not to break the little bones in your hand on someone's face. That's why I like bathrooms; lots of hard surfaces.

Guy on Left was out, head cracked. I rushed into the main bathroom where Guy on Right was looking around. I surprised him with a forearm to the throat. I took the arm holding the gun forced it down on my knee and dislocated his elbow. I kneed him in the stomach and he folded over. I then spun him around, shoving him into a mirror, breaking it, before spinning and throwing him into a urinal. He fell back unconscious. I walked back over to Guy on Right and took his gun. Walking back over to Guy on Left, I fatally shot him before walking back over to Guy on Right to shoot him.

I left the motel, limping, with the gun concealed in under my vest. There was an African male with black dreadlocks by the valet, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder. I needed a vehicle. Quick. Looking around I spotted an orange dirt bike near the end of the steps, its owner leaning against it reading a magazine. Walking fast, I shoved him off, grabbed the helmet and put it on.

"I'll leave it at the airport," I told the guy on the ground as I put on my sunglasses before speeding off. I wasn't accustomed to dirt bikes, so I was kicking up dirt more than actually riding it. It was by the market place I was picked up at when they caught up with me. The passenger, Mr. Dreadlocks, leaned out the window and shot off an automatic at me in a public street. Southern Nigeria isn't my favorite place in the world. It's unstable, it's corrupt, and the people there eat a lot of terrible-smelling preserved fish. One flew into my face when I sideswiped a market table. But the worst part is that there is no place to hide. If you're a white guy in a nice suit, it's going to be easy for the bad guys to find you no matter what you do.

For a few more minutes I was chased down alley-sized streets after street and shot at repeatedly. Luckily, the Mr. Dreadlocks was a terrible shot. His driver wasn't much better – he drove a mid-sized sedan into a crowded market place. Needless to say they crashed. What was funny was when the two got out of the car and started waving their guns around, shouting for people to move. That was when everybody in the street, even the little grandmas, pulled out guns on these two. Thank you, capital of gun-running.

I drove into the air strip; two uniformed soldiers waved above their heads for me to stop. I hopped off, tearing off the helmet, and approached one of the uniforms. He saw my ticket and pointed me towards the stairs of the plane where a female flight attendant waved me one. I hobbled in, walking down the rows until I found an empty section before collapsing into the uncomfortably padded chairs. If you're gonna collapse on a plane, I recommend business class for the pure fact that the seats are bigger if you start convulsing. I was dazing out of it, the two flight attendants and the captain standing over me were blurred and their voices muffled. I closed my eyes and I was out.

That's when the nightmare began…

_In my dream, __I awoke to the sensation of metal being torn from my body. I yelled, convulsing in the pain. The feeling talons rake over my body as I hear a caw of alarm spurred me to rise. Shocked, I madly swatted at the vulture on top of me. Once it and it's friends had flown away, I laid my head back, wincing at the blind pain. _

_ "What the hell happened?" was all I could think._

_ Fighting to stand, I tried to swallow the nausea, acid melting my throat and burning my tongue. As my wounds seeped afresh, the trickling of blood light as the caress of a lover; I began to pick away the blood that clung to my pus-impregnated eyes.__  
__ Decay hit my other senses easily as I could see it. Countless fly covered bodies littered the squishy ground, marking the failure of my mission and the death of my men. Slaughtered and torn; their glazed, crow-picked eyes seemed to stare into me; their accusations strong. Broken smiles told of the peaceful release, from my command and their slow deaths._

_My eyes were drawn to a lithe figure impaled upon a stout pole. A crumpled heap of what looked to be torn clothing next to it. _

_ "My God…" I muttered slowly, my hand covering my mouth, eyes watering. "God please…no…."_

_ I approached slowly; fear of the worst gripping my heart tight. My steps slowed as I got near. It was my wife, Beth; impaled in a most unspeakable way between her traumatized legs. Patches of dark hair still clung to the husk of her corpse; flesh slowly decaying away. _

_ "How long was I unconscious?" I thought. My hand trembled as I reached out towards her. Her lower jaw was utterly broken to one side; caught in an eternal scream. That face would haunt me for the rest of my days, yet I would not know it then. A liquid oozed from her bruised and once sensitive skin, her bare form evidence to her last moments. With a last kiss, I tasted the blood on her lips._

_Only then on a closer look did I notice that the pile of torn clothing was my daughter. _

"_Arianna…" I sobbed, my hand reaching to touch her. "Oh, my baby, what have they done?!"_

_She had not been spared the torment Beth had suffered; her tiny body had been wracked with the coarse and faithless touch of crazed so-called "men". Falling to the ground in despair, I felt the metal littering my body kiss again, but I did not want it to heal. I wanted to die. _

_My vision dimmed and muttered countless apologies as my body burned with thirst of the blood pooling beneath me. For all my sins, I wanted to die._

_And at that moment_…I woke up.

҉

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

Screaming, I violently surged up from the hospital bed I way laying in, pulling out a M11 pistol from under my pillow. After a quick glance around the room, checking that I was alone, I slowly removed the white covers from my body. I was naked save a pair of boxer shorts that were a size too small. Besides being a little creeped out that they weren't mine, they did give me a chance to look over the damage – wrapped sprained right ankle; a white bandage wrapped around the bloody gunshot to my left thigh; wrapped cracked ribs; a gunshot wound to my right shoulder wrapped heavily around my chest and resting in a sling; and everywhere there wasn't a wrapped bandage there were bruises. Lots of them.

Painfully slow, I struggled out of the hospital bed, wincing with every move made. The feeling of the cold tile on my bare feet wasn't much better. I tried to stand, but the IVs and heart monitor leads pulled at me. I grunted and yanked them off.

"I hate needles." I muttered.

"Who doesn't?" A female voice said. I snapped up, ignoring the intense pain, and trained my gun on her. She stepped out of the shadows of the doorway slowly with her hands up. "Easy now, tough guy. You're a lucky man. That many bruises, anyone would think you fell under a truck. I suppose a truck's a possibility, but there's no way you fell."

"E-Emily?" I asked, lowering my gun. "Emily Prentiss?"

The last time I saw Emily was at her funeral. I hid behind trees, never being seen but always seeing. I wept for her that night. I drank myself into a stupor and wept for her. She looked different now; her hair was shorter and her eyes much older.

"Not an organ donor. Shame on you," she said, not even bothering to look up at me as she rifled through my thin wallet. When she finally did look up at me, she smiled. "Hello, Thomas."

I tried to walk towards her, but I faltered. Lucky, Emily caught me, but unfortunately, her hand caught me in the ribs. Grunting, I said through gritted teeth, "Dammit Emily…"

"Sorry! I am so sorry!" She said, carefully helping me back into bed. "Here, lie down. Lie back down."

I sighed carefully and did as I was told. I closed my eyes for a few moments to gather and store whatever fucked up emotions I felt for her. When I opened my eyes again, I saw she was sitting an uncomfortable looking green chair off to the side of my bed. "Not that I'm not elated by your sudden resurrection, but…"

"How am I alive? Why am I alive?" She smiled sadly. "Both very good questions. Some days I actually hoped I was dead."

"Death isn't a penance." I said softly, reaching out to hold her hand gently in mine.

She shook her head. "Enough. I've spent enough time being sad and so have you. You have questions and I have answers…hopefully. But before we can get to all that, there's a few things you need to clear up."

"Okay, I'll go first." I said before she could say anything else. "Where am I?"

Emily ignored my question like I didn't ask. "You've been out for a few days. Impressive; my record is two. The maid got curious, went through your stuff, though." She slapped me in the arm with my wallet, causing me to wince. "You have Interpol London's number in your wallet as your emergency contact. You take that out when you leave, you know."

"I'm flattered that you came back from the dead for me, Emmy," I groaned, sitting up to lean back against the headboard and whispered, "but you're not Interpol."

"Neither are you." She whispered back.

"Then why you in a piss-ant, third rate clinic in London?"

Her face lost some of its humor for a sad tone, "Because I run Interpol London now."

"Get outa town," I smiled, squeezing her hand. "I thought the B.A.U was home?"

"My 'funeral' was over two years ago. A lot happened since then." She smiled sadly, lifting her hand to stroke my cheek. "I heard the message you left at Interpol. It sounded like you might die. I-I wanted to be there…"

"Emmy," I sighed kissing the palm of her hand.

"-at the end to tell you what a bastard you were," she smiled wickedly and patted my cheek. I chuckled, which hurt like a bitch, before asking,

"So, I'm really in London?"

Emily nodded. "Apparently you collapsed on the flight out of Nigeria, but not before you called here. We instructed the airline to redirect its flight and land you here. From there, my men moved you to the nearest medical center and waited till I got there. That was four days ago."

I sighed, painfully rolling to my feet and got off the bed. I walked to the window where my black duffle bag was laid out. When I looked inside, I saw that it was empty. I stood still, grasping at the edges. It's one thing to mess with me, it's whole other thing to mess with the people I love, but you are going to hell if you mess with what I keep in that bag. "Who touched my stuff, Emily?"

"Where do you think you're going?" Emily asked as she stood up. She knew I would never leave without what was in that bag.

I turned back to her, saying carefully. "Where's my stuff, Emily?"

"It's being looked after. If you would just tell me where you plan on going-"

"I-I don't know. Somewhere." I sighed, clutching my white bandaged ribs. "Look, Emmy, thanks for stitching me back up and everything, but-"

"You can't leave," she said quietly.

"Why can't I leave?" I squinted my eyes in suspicion.

She came towards me, her face carefully guarded. "We need to talk, Thomas. You might want to sit down."

҉

Those two sentences that came from Emily Prentiss's mouth changed everything. I fought off the blinding pain and refused the medication long enough for Emily to clear things up for me. My "mission" in Syria had gone rouge at the last minute. Langley called off orders 24 hours previous, yet my handler refused to obey (leaving me in the dark, might I add). Agent Fussco had been serving his country, for what seems like, since Vietnam – he was older than dirt, yet smarter than most West Point graduates. He was one of the best and you were damn well honored to have him watching your six.

That wasn't what it felt like when Emily told me he sold me out. Like I said before, Fusso had been on the job a hell of a lot longer than some and he was getting sick of seeing the same paycheck. And being the sneaky little C.I.A prick he was trained to be, he did his intel. and sought out a few sketchy men who specialized in jewels that came from forced African labor. The only thing he need was a man without a country who would do anything for a price and a rubber stamp from the government agency who sent him out to do whatever needed to be done.

That was me. Fussco supplied Langley with false intel. and demanded to be put on point. Everything was running smooth until Langley caught wind of the false information. They scrubbed it and Fussco ignored it. He sent me in blind, looking to gain the Russian's account information to buy the diamonds at no risk to him. I took all the risk and got my ass handed to me.

Now, I have a bull's-eye on my back and my name in the "black-book" in Langley. Translation: I'm out of a job in a world where Langley would see to it that I would sooner be killed for what I know than be hired for my skill set. Thank whoever's looking out for me that Emily Prentiss is on my side. With a few phone calls to her pals back home and wherever else she has favors. Good news: name's not on any hit-lists anytime soon and I'm free to leave to country. Bad news: I'm being deported from the U.K to the U.S where I would once again work for their government. From what I can tell, as far as jobs are concerned, I hear the B.A.U is nice this time of year.


End file.
